


Save Tonight, and Fight the Break of Dawn

by HellNHighHeels



Series: Your heart beats faster when it's with mine [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Darillium, F/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not enough to just take her to Darillium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Tonight, and Fight the Break of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I don't always write fics about Darillium, but when I do... Well, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
> 
> Story title from Save Tonight by Eagle Eye Cherry
> 
> Series title from Mescaline by Robert Francis

It's not enough to just take her to Darillium, to wade through the masses of tourists and gift shops. It's not enough to just listen to The Towers sing. Any simpleton can do that, and River Song is anything but simple. She is unique and complex, a mystery he'll never stop solving. She's endlessly surprising him, a constant, ever changing puzzle he'll never quite figure out. She is an adventure, the greatest one this face will ever know.

And tonight is the last night he'll ever see her.

So no, he doesn’t just take her to see The Towers. He shows her the Towers in a way no one has ever seen before or ever will again. He takes her to the beginning, when the planet is still raw and forming, where magma still bubbles up far beneath them and the first tip of what will become a towering monument is emerging from a sea of liquid fire.

It's not enough for her to just hear The Towers sing. He wants her to hear the first note, a sound no one else ever has or ever will. He wants the two of them to be present when the first vibrations ripple up from the planet's core and resonate through the airwaves. He wants only them to share the sound, to keep it like a secret for their ears alone. He wants to share a first on his last night with her.

She's gazing out the doors of the TARDIS, face aglow from the volcanic scene below. She looks like some kind of fire goddess, skin flushed from heat, wild curls billowing around her face like flames, green eyes like embers, flickering with oranges and yellows. Simply stunning. She doesn't speak, or even seem to notice that he's staring at her. She's far too wrapped up in the scene below, watching intently as waves of crimson crash and spill over the newly forming rock.

The only audible response she makes is a sharp intake of breath as the specialized stone begins to peak out from the fire, the first notes soaring up and bathing the air with it's sharp, earthy sound. Magma washes over it like the tide, giving rhythm to the singular noise until the volatile scene below them looks more like a dance, waves ebbing and flowing to the sound of the music. It's odd the way something so destructive can create something so beautiful. The way fire entrances right before it burns, how caterpillars must die so butterflies can be born. How her life must end so their journey can begin.

It isn't long before other Towers break through the lava, too, ushering forth an orchestra of natural hymns. They meld together like a symphony, each note carefully conducted by the heart of the newly formed planet. There are theories, legends, stories, that everyone hears something different. That the stones speak to individuals, singing the song of your soul, meant for your ears alone. Science says otherwise. Logic dictates that such a thing is impossible. And yet, the look on her face is almost enough to sway him, to make him believe in magic, miracles, happy endings.

Her eyes are glossy with happy tears, like the melody she hears is soft and sweet, hope made manifest in sound waves. So the legends must be true. What she hears must be different from the dull, melancholy sound bouncing in his eardrums.  Or maybe everything is just insignificant in comparison to her. Symphonies nullified to cacophonies when compared to her laugh and sunsets turned dark next to her smile. Oases reduced to deserts in her absence.  

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she breathes. 

"I've never seen its equal," he answers, eyes fixed on her. 

Her eyes flick up to his, smiling knowingly. "You've hardly even glanced at it."         

"I know. I had a better view."

Her cheeks color at that, a soft, dusty pink that reminds him of flower petals and innocence. The flush of color is one of her secrets slipping through, the tender, sweet side she keeps well hidden. She's a glorious contradiction, his wife. Never one to be flustered by innuendo or flattery, but quiet sincerity would get her every time. 

"Come on," he tilts his head back toward the console. "I have something else I want to show you."

She follows him, closing the doors of the TARDIS and cutting off the music. But even with the doors closed he can feel the melancholy tune reverberating in his being. It sits heavily between his hearts, settling in his bones and making his chest tight. She doesn't seem to share his quiet turmoil, and for that he's grateful. She waits patiently, a slightly distant look in her eyes. The quiet contemplation on her face tells him she feels it, too, the weight of this night, even if she doesn't know what or why. It's written in the crease of her brow, the shimmering behind her eyes, and the shallow breaths that fill her lungs. All is quiet, a comfortable and peaceful silence settling over them as he puts the TARDIS in flight. He even leaves the breaks off, wanting tonight to be perfect. An act she never fails to notice, and she offers him a grateful smile as their eyes meet over the console.

Funny thing, a smile: the spreading of lips and baring of teeth. To any other species it's an act of aggression, but to humans it's comforting and charming, a sign of friendship, love, happiness. It's so very River, to take something he should want to run from, something that should mean danger, and use it to fill him with hope and longing. 

He returns her smile, not out of obligation or habit, but because he can't stop himself. She's always syphoning emotions out of him, pulling feelings he forgot he was capable of from the depths of his soul. She makes him stay when all he wants to do is run. She makes him smile when all he knows is despair. She makes him _feel_ , even when he'd rather not.

They don't speak, not with words anyway. The way his eyes lock onto hers, watching her like she's the first and last thing in the universe, say more than any spoken language. Words and syllables and sounds could never describe what she means to him. Nothing could take shape of all that she is, no colors bright enough or sounds sweet enough. Not even Gallifreyan would do. The dead language of his people is capable of reshaping constellations and unmaking matter, and it still isn't enough.  Only soft kisses and gentle affection can express the sentiments his clumsy tongue would surely spoil. Everything falls short in the endeavor of expressing what she means, everything except the way his hazel eyes pour into her green ones.

He is lost in her, entranced by pools of liquid green and the soft humming of the ship. He is rendered defenseless against the arch of her brow and helpless in the presence of her curving lips and oh- she's speaking to him.

"Sorry, what?" he asks, waking from his trance. 

She smirks knowingly. "I said, we've landed. Unless you had something more private you wanted to show me first?"

"No. Well, yes," he corrects, trying not to blush. "But later." He adds, slipping between her and the doors. The close proximity makes him lightheaded, the unique smell of her intoxicating his senses. He drinks it in, wondering if he'll still remember it in a hundred years time. That distinctly chaotic blend of spicy and sweet, of vanilla and time, of old books and messon bursts.  It grounds him and sends his hearts soaring. It's like she's a drug, a walking hypnotic meant to make him dizzy and clumsy.

The gravity of her pulls him in, making him sway as his lips brush her cheek, quietly instructing, "Close your eyes." She arches a curious brow, but indulges him, a small smile playing at her lips. He takes the rare moment to memorize her profile, cataloging those full, flirty lips, long lashes, and the bump on her nose he loves to run his finger over. He plants a kiss on the tip of her nose and she opens one eye to peak at him.

"Now, none of that Professor, or I'll have to blindfold you." 

She chuckles darkly. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Behave yourself and it could be both." 

"Well when you put it like that..." She purrs and he covers her eyes with his hands, just for good measure. He tries not to think about the fact it's the last time he'll do it. This is the last time he'll feel the flutter of her eyelashes against his palms. The last night she’ll bury her face in his neck and her breath will tickle his skin. The last time he'll surprise her with a new suit and whisk her away. Together for the last time, the Doctor and River Song: _next stop everywhere_. 

He smiles through the aching loss already blooming in his chest, refusing to mourn what he hasn't yet lost. She is still right in front of him, tangible, solid, warm, and patiently waiting for him to guide her into their next adventure. 

The chilly night air washes over them as they pass the threshold of the TARDIS, so he keeps her warm by sliding his hands away from her eyes to wrap around her from behind. She melts into the embrace, and he nuzzles into the hair tickling his cheek to whisper, "Open." She does, breath instantly hitching. He relishes the sound, her inability to express how moved she is is his favorite thing in the world. He can't add to the number of times her heart will beat or breaths she will take, but he can give her moments that take her breath away and make her heart skip beats. 

"Is it the same one?" She asks, taking in her surroundings. Miles of nothing but sand and sky and stars, residual time memory crackling in the air, they could only be in one place. 

"Probably." He shrugs nonchalantly, but it's all for show because he _knows_. He smells it in the air, feels it tingling across his skin. "It's the only one that had room for all this, at any rate." He gestures to the blanket and picnic basket laid out beside them. Time and sand have whittled away at the sharp point of the pyramid, leaving only enough room for the TARDIS, the two of them, and a blanket. 

The stars, his ship, and his wife, all he could ever need.  

"I'll never be able to eat all that in this dress." She exclaims, eyeing the copious amounts of food he's pulling from the basket.

"That's the idea." He pauses to grin at her and swats at him, rolling her eyes in that way that tells him he's being cheeky but she rather loves it. He's thought of everything from Caseuial quiche to Fecitian champagne. He's not a fan of either, to be honest. But they're her favorites, and tonight is about her, all her favorite foods in her favorite place with what he hopes is her favorite version of himself.  He's even brought champagne, a fancy 51st century brand that the shopkeeper assured him he didn't even need his extra fizzy straw for. He pours her glass first, watching as she swallows, elegant and seductive as she closes her eyes and lets out a satisfied hum.

"I didn’t think you liked champagne." She queries as he pours himself a glass, sipping at it like it’s only slightly poisonous.

"I like everything when you're around." He answers, sure he could learn to like anything if it involved her making that delicious humming noise.

"You're getting soppy in your old age." She smirks. “This might even be the oldest I’ve seen this face.”

"That’s good, isn’t it? Things only get better as they age."

"That's the rule for wine, sweetie, not husbands."

"Well at least I still look young."

"Oh I dunno,” she teases, “is that a grey hair I see?"

“Not all of us can be as graceful as you, dear.”

“And agreeable, too.” She tuts. “You’re taking all the fun out of teasing you.”

“Well it’s hardly fair. You can’t be day over-“ He stops when she raises an expectant brow. “I mean, surely you’re not… Actually, exactly how old are you?”

A smirk curls her lips as she sips at her glass. “A girl has to have some secrets”

Only slightly distracted by the way her throat flexes when she swallows, he asks, “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because, darling,” her smirk stretches to a full blown grin. “It’s ever so fun to watch you squirm.”

They look quite out of place having a picnic on top of the world, his legs casually folded beneath him even though he's in a tux and tails, and her, sprawled elegantly across their cozy blanket in a fancy gown that sparkles and shines almost as bright as the sky above. Then again, it wouldn’t be them if even simple moments weren't positively ridiculous and entirely too outlandish and absolutely wonderful in every way.

"I wasn't expecting all this, you know." She admits, nibbling at an exotic fruit. 

"I know." He answers, planting a kiss to the corner of her mouth and tasting the sweetness of the fruit that lingers there. "You never do. That's why I love doing it."

She rests her head against his shoulder, sighing happily when he laces an arm over her. "It's so good to see you." She says, her love for him resonating through her words. "This you, I mean." She smiles, placing feather light kisses against his jawline. "Your younger selves can be such hard work." 

"Mine?" He sputters. "Your younger selves tried to kill me. Twice!"

"That's how I flirt, dear." She soothes and he mumbles under his breath about mixed signals. Things fall quiet, the only sound the rustling of wind against ancient stone and the crinkling of clothing as she burrows into his side, seeking protection from the chilly night air. His other arm wraps around her like a reflex, sheltering her with the warmth of his embrace.  

For what it's worth, it is good to see her this far along in her timestream. He hasn't seen her like this since the early days, back before he really knew her. Days from a reality that never really happened, with Amy so young and a plastic Centurion. Days wasted on his younger self, time with her he’ll never get back, kisses he missed out on, moments he let slip by because he was timid and unsure and so very scared. He wonders if she’s thinking about them, too. Of picnics on Asgard and angels and days she not long ago lived.

He resists the urge to ask about spoilers. As long as he doesn't _know_ he can still pretend he'll see her again. He still has hope. The thought of seeing her after this is terrifying, but more so is the thought of never seeing her again. Only River could instill that level of contradiction in him. Only she could stop and start and steal his hearts. Only she could come and go and kiss and kill and save and sacrifice and soldier on in spite of what was best for herself.

"Have you ever wished it was different?" He asks quietly, breaking the silence, voice hushed and low.

"What do you mean, my love?" It’s obvious by her tone that her mind is currently far, far away.

"Your life. Don't wish you could go back and do it properly? Go to school, have a pet, get in trouble. The lot." 

"Rest assured," she chuckles mischievously," I got in plenty of trouble." 

"Be serious." He says flatly.

"I am being serious." She muses, nails playfully skirting up his inner thighs. "The things I've done, it could make the Marquis de Sade blush." 

"River." He scolds, capturing her clever, rather distracting fingers, and she sighs.

"No, I wouldn't change a thing."

"Stormcage, Kovarian, all of it could have been avoided."

He feels her shrug against him. "I quite like my life the way it is."

"But why?" He pulls away slightly, looking her in the eye. "Why wouldn't you change it, if you could?" 

She practically laughs, looking at him like he's daft. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Your life could have been so much simpler. So much _better_. If only I'd.." His voice breaks, which is good because he doesn't really know what he was going to say next.

"Why do you insist on trying to fix things that aren't broken?" 

She’s not like his ship, he knows. He can’t tighten and tinker and poke and prod until everything is fine. He can’t undo the injustices of her life with new thermo couplings or delete the bad days with the press of a button. But he’ll never stop trying because she deserves so much better, so much more. Because it’s not fair. Because it’s just not right. "Because it’s wrong." He blurts before he can stop himself, overcome with emotion. He's ruining this like he promised himself he wouldn't. 

She pulls away, offended. "My life is _wrong_?" 

He scoffs but his voice retreats to a more submissive tone. "You know what I mean."

River's arms fold defensively in front of her, eyes laced with skepticism. "I'm not sure I do." 

"I just wish..." _I could have been strong enough to stay away, to have protected you, found a way to save you_ Each thought is equally as impossible as the other. He could sooner convince his lungs to stop breathing than keep away from her. He fears his hearts would still beat out her name even if he rewrote every line. Even if he took away every memory, his soul would still mourn her. But regardless of the gapping chasm the loss of her would leave him with, he only wants what’s best for her. And deep down he knows a life with him has never really been fair to her. "I wish you could have had a normal life." He admits.

"I don't want a normal life." 

"But _why_?" 

"Because!" She releases a breath, slow and deliberate, emphasizing her exasperation. "Then I wouldn't have you." They stare into each other, neither one wanting to back down. 

He breaks first, eyes falling from hers. Why does she have to be so amazing? Why must she be so clever and capable and so much more than he deserves? Why must she make him love her when he'll never be good enough, when all he does is hurt her?  "Don't be so ridiculous, River." He mutters.

"Is it so ridiculous?" A soft hand reaches up to stroke his cheek. "To love you." He fidgets a little, wanting to argue, but instead he resigns with a sigh of defeat. He has no answers for her, only eyes that won’t make contact with hers. "My life has been amazing, Doctor. I wouldn't change one second. Not one line. Not now, not ever. Especially if it meant losing you." 

He closes his eyes, letting the weight of her words sink into his bones. He needed to hear those words now, before she's on her deathbed and has no other choice but to die or never exist at all. He needs these words while she's happy. He needs these words to live off of, just her voice to echo within the darkness of his mind. He'll replay them on the lonely nights without her, when he gets illusions of grandeur and entertains ideas of giving her a life she never asked for, but deserves. She deserves a family, a childhood, a universe where she isn't haunted by faces she can't remember, space suites, and twelve thousand consecutive life sentences. A universe where she never goes to The Library, never has to see that awful place full shadows and death. She deserves a reality less cruel, where her headstone sits beside her parents and maybe even her own children. A place with flowers and sunlight, somewhere fitting and beautiful enough for River Song. He needs to hear that she wouldn’t change a thing so he won't rewrite it all. Because then she wouldn't be River, and that would be the biggest crime he could ever commit. War, genocide, destruction and still, robbing the universe of her would be the most terrible thing he could possibly do.  

But he would do it, if she asked him to.

"Has it been enough for you, River? All the running? This back to front, three legged race of a romance? Are you happy?" 

"Where is all this coming fro-"

"Just answer the question." He interrupts, a little more harshly than he should. "I... "His tone softens, repentant as he takes her hands in his. "I need to know."  There’s a desperate edge to his voice and a shadow in his eyes that someone who didn't know him like she did might have written off, but River has always been able to read him like the pages in her diary. 

She cups his face, looking deep into his eyes. He awaits her answer with baited breath, feeling weary in a way he hasn't felt in a very long time. He feels every single one of his twelve hundred years. In the silence before she speaks, he feels every blow to the hearts, every cut and scrape, and the weight of every loss sitting heavy on his chest.

"No." She finally answers, and his hearts plummet. Then she adds, "Happy is too trite a word. Sure, at times the back to front can make things difficult and exhausting, but it makes things better, too. It’s taught us to appreciate the little moments. We love more in an hour than most people do their entire lives. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I tore apart the universe because I couldn’t get my fill of you, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” His eyes search hers for seconds or days or all eternity, waiting for her to sigh or roll her eyes or show any sign of doubt. But all he finds is love, timeless and resolute. ”Besides,” she adds, flashing him a smirk that’s nothing but trouble. “How could watching that gangly body of yours stumble through a, what did you call it? ‘Three legged race of a romance’, not be worth shredding the space time continueum?” She laughs, warm and rich and his hearts lift at the sound.

Face finally softening, he smiles and says, "Close your eyes. I have a gift for you." 

"I thought Darillium was my present?" She asks but obliges, closing her eyes and holding her palms out expectantly. 

"That was from me.” He says turning his body away and rummaging through his breast pocket. “Technically, this is from the TARDIS.” The cool metal meets her hands and she gropes it for a moment, confused. "Open." He instructs, a small smile tugging at his lips.

She does, brow furrowing at the sight. "Your old screwdriver?"

"Yep." He beams. 

"Am I supposed to use this to get my present? Because it doesn't count as a gift if-" 

"No. No," he interrupts, "My screwdriver is your present." 

Realization dawns and she smiles in disbelief. "You can't give me this. You don't give your screwdrivers to anyone." She half heartedly argues but keeps the device securely in her grasp.

"And you're not just anyone." He says, tapping her nose, and she flushes for the second time that night. It's a gorgeous coloring and he wishes he'd seen it more, complimented her more, held her hand a little longer, kissed her a little harder. He wishes he’d doted on her like this every night. But wishing can’t change the past, not even his.

"Thank you." She breathes, placing a chaste kiss to his lips. "It's perfect."

"I knew you'd love it." 

"Oh, a red setting!” She exclaims, examining it. “That's new. And is that a trigger?"

He doesn’t answer, too caught up in the smile she’s wearing and how it brightens her face in a way that makes his stomach flutter. So many good deeds he's done in his life, but all of them pale in comparison to making her smile, to the loving look in her eyes when he catches her staring at him. She makes him feel important, like maybe it's all worth it, all the loss and the pain. It’s hard to regret his past, even the terrible things, when ultimately it led him to her.

"Marry me." He blurts and she looks up at him, befuddled and somewhat amused.

"Sweetie," she says with all the patience of a school teacher talking to a child who eats glue, "we're already married."

"I know, I know. But let's do it again. The proper version."

"..Are you serious?"

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life." He scoots a little closer to her, taking her hand. "I know it's not quite as flashy as the last one, with the universe not tearing itself apart and all, but at least we’ll have time to enjoy the honeymoon this go round." 

She watches him, uncertain and oddly shy. "Most girls settle for dinner and a ring."

"You're not most girls. And you should never settle, especially not for diamonds. They're much too ordinary for you.” He punctuates the sentence with a bop on the nose and the smile she rewards him with nearly turns him to jelly. “So what'll it be River Song? Will you marry me? Again?"

She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks it’s as if the words she’s exhaling are as vital to her existence as the oxygen that fills her lungs. “Anywhere, anywhen, and as many times as you’d like.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He grins, jumping to his feet and holding a hand out to her.

“What, now?” She asks, incredulous eyebrows high on her forehead.

“No time like the present.” He flashes her his most dashing smile, fingers wiggling encouragingly.

She takes his hand with a coy smile and lets him pull her to her feet. “You’re very sentimental tonight.”

“You have no idea.” He whispers conspiratorially, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out _the_ bow tie. She smiles brightly, eyes and nose crinkling, and he almost forgets how to breathe. The tug on the fabric as she wraps the silk around her hand brings him back to reality, though, and he quickly does the same.

He lets his thoughts run freely, seeking out the corners of his mind for all the words he’s always been too cowardly to say. He tells her that right from the beginning he was blown away by her brilliance and her bravery. He tells her that before her he had nothing to lose, and with her he was given a family. She gave him light and hope and a home. She gave him roots when all he knew how to do was roam. He tells her she is his conscience, his muse, his everything, and if it weren’t for her, he would be lost.

She tells him that he’s the best man she’s ever known, that he’s mad and clever and wonderful and utterly, completely impossible. And she wouldn’t want him any other way. She promises to never let him get away with anything, including doubting himself or brooding too long over things he cannot change. And then she kisses him in a way that makes him feel like the universe is collapsing all over again. She makes his brain fuzzy on the most normal days. He didn't stand a chance here, on top of the world, in the cool night air, echoes of time energy crackling around them and hands bound by silk. He can feel the turn of the planet beneath them, the way it orbits the sun, and the way that sun is a part of a galaxy that orbits a blackhole. He can feel the pull and spin of all of it, expanding and stretching around them. It all centers around them, their colliding lips the epicenter, holding all of time and space together.

All too soon, they part and she asks, "Does this mean we're officially married now?"

"Not quite.” He answers, brushing a wayward curl behind her ear. “This version has to be sealed with something a little more intimate than a kiss."

She hums, hands working their way across his chest, "I'm liking this version better already."

He bends his head and she lifts her chin to accommodate. But rather than planting kisses to her neck like she expects, his lips brush the shell of her ear, whispering words that must never be spoken. When he pulls back, her eyes are wide with surprise and shinning with tears. And if he thought she looked at him with awe the last time they stood on this spot, he knew nothing of the depths those green pools could reach. So full of love and wonder he could happily drown in them. 

He shouldn't have waited so long for this moment. Heaven knows he's wanted to tell her a million times, but keeping it a secret somehow felt like a promise of more time with her. Everyday he didn't tell her meant he was guaranteed at least one more day. But there’s no running anymore, no more borrowing time that he has no intention of giving back. This is it.  
  
Soft lips part, words fresh on her tongue, but she hesitates and just when he thinks he's finally stumped her, finally rendered her speechless, she smiles and says, "What took you so long?"

He laughs, releasing a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. "Never the right time."

"You didn't have to, you know. I never expected-" 

"I wanted to." He interjects. "I want you to know all of me, just as I want to know every inch of you."  
An unnecessary sentiment, he knows. They've never needed to know everything about the other to understand how hopelessly bound their hearts were. Their relationship is founded on secrets, built around misdirections. They each learned long ago to trust someone they knew to be a liar, and to love unconditionally, against all the odds. She never needed to know his real name to know and love the man he is. In turn, he loved her far before he knew who and what she was. He loved her long before he married her, before he fully trusted her, before he even stopped running from her. He thinks he's loved her since the moment he snapped his fingers, the moment that blue door creaked open and spilled light into the darkness. The moment she spoke of a future and he believed, he knew he was hers. He also knew that after the loss of her shattered him, there would be no picking up the pieces.

"You really are a sentimental idiot, aren't you, sweetie?"

His head dips down, smirking playfully at her. "You're the one who married me."

"Yes, well, jail time made me used to community service."

Before he can retort, she's kissing him again, body molding to his in the most delicious ways. His arms fold instinctively around her, gladly returning the kiss. On the same place she constructed him a beacon, he does his best to become hers. He understands now, her need to show him he was loved, and by no one more than her. He thinks he would surely die, explode in fury or wither away to dust if someone tried to take her from him now, robbing him of these final moments, before he’s had his chance to truly show her what she means to him. He understands now what he was asking her to do when she thought she was killing him. He knows because, in a way, he feels like he's killing her by allowing the universe to continue to turn. Every tick of the clock brings her one breath closer to the library, to the end. And without her, he knows he will face suffering, unparalleled and the likes of which he has never seen or dared to imagine.

In his arms she is warm and safe. But soon he will have to let her go, expose her to the cold night air. If he lets her go the wind will bite at her skin and chill her bones. If he lets her go, she won't be safe from the turn of time or carnivorous shadows.  If he releases her, she will leave him and he will never get her back.

Somehow, he manages to bury that thought. Instead he holds her body tight to his, trying to meld them together so they'll never be apart. They make love under the stars, slowly, thoroughly, like they have all the time in the universe. 

\----

  
Later on, when they finally make it back to the TARDIS, he lies there watching her sleep, bow tie still wrapped around her fist like a safety blanket. She looks peaceful in her sleep. Slow, even breaths making her chest rise and fall in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. She doesn't always sleep like this. No, she saves this special brand of deep, all consuming sleep for when she's on the TARDIS. She told him once that this was the only place she is free to rest without worry of prison riots or nightmares of faces she can't remember. Here there is only the quiet hum of the TARDIS and the sweet comfort of home. He's glad this is where she’s spending her last night, that the last thing she dreams won’t be terrible.  
  
Looking at her now, it doesn't feel like the end. It doesn't feel like goodbye. It feels like they have forever. Time and space and the edges of the universe and always and completely _them_. She burrowed her way into his hearts and under his skin and breathed life into his old soul. He'll never be rid of her, and he's not sure if that thought comforts or burdens him. That he’ll catch whiffs of her perfume lingering in the wardrobe, clinging to his coats and hats like sweet summer heat long after the sun has set. He’ll reach for her in the night, finding only cool sheets where her warm body should be. He’ll feel her touch ghosting over his shoulders and chest and her breath on the hollow of his throat because _Mmm I do love it when you wear this suit._ He'll see her dancing in the way planets orbit stars, spinning and dipping and _the hem of her dress flicks out as he twirls her, soaring and sparkling like the tail of a comet_. 

The tide will remind him of her laugh, graceful and pulling him in, washing over him again and again until he drowns in it. He'll hear her voice echoing through the emptiness of space and the roar of crowded rooms. He'll be reminded of that clever thing she did that time and how she bites her lip. He'll think of her when he's saving planets and reading books and when he's doing nothing at all. He'll see her in the sun, _mad curls twisting out like solar flares_ and how it turned her skin to honey, golden and warm. He'll see her in the winter, _snowflakes catching in her lashes_ and _the great frost fairs_ and _endings don't have to be sad._

He'll see her everywhere. It hurts and it blinds and it burns him. And he wouldn't trade it for the world. To be haunted by the memories is still better than never having them at all.  He cannot have the good without the bad. No picnics by lake sides without graveyards and angels. No dancing for days or kisses that heal or smiles that shine without shadows and books and _Tell me you know who I am._  
  
He tries not to think of everything he'll be giving up when she walks out that door. Not just her sassy remarks and hatred of his hats, but the party crashing and ice skating and all the things they did together. No more _you always dance at weddings_ because it will only remind him of her. No more museums and keeping score and _I was there when that was built_ and _No, you don't get extra points for digging it up just because you're the reason it was buried_. All the places he just can't go because _River would have liked it here_ or _Sontarans always did make her laugh_. It’s everything he just can’t eat because _Oh, sweetie! The Gums are my favorite_! Now it only tastes like the absence of her, bitter as it rolls across his tongue, ashes sliding down his throat. It’s everything he just can’t say, like _Spoilers_ and _Make me_ and _I’ll always catch you_ because those words belong to her.

She stirs in her sleep and he lifts a hand to brush back an unruly curl. He should have watched her sleep every night, paid attention to every agonizing detail, cataloged every breath and memorized every smile. He tries to make up for it by devoting his entire being to the way she feels beneath his palm, warm and soft and _alive_. His palm follows the swell of her cheeks to the curve of her lips, thumb grazing her bottom lip. They part automatically at the familiar gesture, and he swallows back a sob or a laugh, his hearts both swelling and shattering. Fingers drop to the sharp line of her jaw, but he can’t stop there. They itch to run over every inch of her, to map her like it's the first time all over again.

The tips of his fingers ghost over her chest, between the valley of her breasts and down to her naval. They dance over the tight skin of her stomach, tracing the bump of each rib. Her skin goosebumps under his fingers as they track their way over the gentle curve of her waist to a spot he knows is extra sensitive. He remembers the first time he discovered that secret spot, how his hands explored her body much like they are now, how she squeaked and convulsed and _River Song, are you **ticklish**?!_ His hand moves on, wandering further still over the crest of her hip to the smooth plain of her thigh. Soft skin and tight muscles and he stills, marveling at how only she could manage to look so fragile and yet so strong.

"Well don't stop there." She hums and his eyes snap up to find her watching him.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to know what you really get up to while I'm asleep, you dirty old man."

"Well how am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when you're all naked and..." He gestures hourglass curves in the air.

“And what were the intentions of those curious hands?" She purrs, slipping one leg over his hips and sliding on top of him. 

He hums, delighting in the warm weight of her spread across his torso and hands smoothing over her hips and lower back as he answers, "Just investigating the local terrain, trying to uncover its secrets. The usual."

"And what did you learn?" She asks, planting soft kisses against his jaw and nails kneading at his scalp.

"That it requires further study." He manages, already floating on a cloud, half lost in a haze of sheets and River.

"I hear the terrain can be quite," she rocks her hips against his, "rough."

His fingers tighten against her hips. "I'll just have to be all the more _rigorous_ in my study, then. Maybe I'll bring in some restraints, should my subject of study get impatient."

Her attentions move, sucking and nipping a hot trail over his neck and ear. “Are you intending on a long, thorough inspection, then?”

“Oh, the longest.” He breathes against her neck, his hands teasing across her back. “It could take hours.” She shivers, the curl of her fingers, tugging and flexing in his hair telling him she is losing patience with his gentle caress. “What do you think of that, dear? Shall I tie you up and explore you until you just can’t take it anymore?” She arches into him at that, whimpering her consent and he can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut. Images and memories and fantasies racing through his head and now her hips are grinding against his in _ways_. He should stop her, push her away, tell her to wait. But he's quite forgotten how his mouth works and what planet he's even on and how can he be expected to function when she's doing _that_?

His hands dig into her hips, whispering, "River." It’s weak and it’s desperate and she takes it as encouragement, humming. The vibrations ripple from her chest into his and it’s delicious and distracting. But he has to focus because this is the last night of _this_. No more under him or over him or next to him. No more slick bodies, no more hogging the covers when she sleeps, no more moans or whispers or breathless laughter. He has to treasure every second and sight and sound, and he has to keep his eyes _open_!

They snap open to the ceiling and he quickly sits up, bringing her with him. His grip is like a vice, hands fanning across her lower back and holding her tight to him. Balancing herself on his shoulders, she looks down at him, eyes wide and slightly alarmed by his urgency. But whatever she finds there, _desperation? devotion?_ It makes her face soften, hands sliding over his shoulders and up his neck. Her lips part to speak, but he kisses her quiet, not trusting his own voice for conversation. It’s a slow kiss, sensuous and sweet, all tentative tongues and soft brushing lips. If she tastes goodbye in his kiss, she doesn’t mention it. If it’s suspicious how he holds her a little too tight and kisses her a little too long, she says nothing. But he's sure she can sense that something isn't right. River always knows. 

 He wants to savor this quiet moment. He wants to kiss her until they've both forgotten they've ever done anything else. She doesn’t seem to mind, if the low moan she makes in the back of her throat is any indication. His hands explore her back, always clutching her to him as they slide over her shoulders and down her arms and back up to fist in her hair. She whimpers into his mouth and he gently tugs her head back, exposing her throat. Her fingers curl into the nape of his neck, toying with the hair there as he nips and kisses every inch of her his mouth can reach. He wants to spend eons worshipping the curve of her neck and the hollow of her throat. He wants to devote lifetimes relearning her body, memorizing the way his palms slide across the swell of her bum and the teeth marks he leaves as they sink around her collarbone.

She gasps when he does, hands fisting in his hair. It’s a warning. It’s a reward. It’s a plea for _more, sweetie, please._ He nips at her again, on the swell of her breast this time, and the strangled noise she makes is almost enough to send him over. His mind erases decades to ensure he’ll remember that noise, that he’ll never forget the vibrations in her throat or the wet noise her lips make as they part or the way her hips press against him to help relieve the ache building in her belly.

He laps his tongue over the mark and he can taste her, sweat and spice and secrets. There’s a groaning noise in his ears and- oh wait, that’s him. He covers it up by taking a nipple in his mouth, letting the vibrations ripple through her body. Now she’s the one groaning, grinding herself against him desperately.

“Doctor,” she breathes and god, those syllables have never sounded as good as they do right now. It sounds sensual and sweet. It sounds like seduction and sin and he finally relents, loosening his grip enough for her to position herself accordingly. Her hands slide down to brace against his chest and just as she’s about to sink down on him, he stops her, his grip on her hips like a life line.

Their eyes meet, subtle breaths swirling between them like a secret. If he were a stronger man he would tell her that she is perfect. Not because she is without flaw, but because she is everything he ever wanted and never knew he needed. She accepts him for everything he is, everything he isn't, and everything he wants to be.  She loves his darkness as well as his light. She's felt his jagged edges and the venom of his bite, and it only made her hold him tighter. She knows that he is fire, but rather than be swallowed up in flames, she bathes in the heat, finding comfort where others would surely burn.

He wants to say it out loud, she _deserves_ to hear it, but he can’t seem to speak past the lump in his throat. So he swirls it into her skin instead, tracing words like _yours_ and _love_ and _whole_.

She smiles down at him and wordlessly traces _bespoke_ over both his hearts.

Only when he smiles back does she sink down on him, silently setting a slow and steady rhythm. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around her, arching her lower back into him. Their eyes are locked and every movement is made with deliberate slowness. Tantric. Hypnotic. He has to remind himself to breathe, his hearts to beat. He empties himself of everything, of grief and regret until there’s nothing left but her. Every day he's been with her, bar one, coursing through his veins. When his mind brushes hers, he is nothing but joy and love and hope and a desperate, desperate need to watch her come apart.

She gasps, a quick intake of breath, and he's almost undone. Her mind brushing back against his, all greens and golds and flecks of TARDIS blue. Colors laced with memories. He pours his love into her, letting her feel what he feels, the weight of her above him, against him, around him, the pressure of her hands on his chest tying him to sanity. She pours into him devotion and urgency and the aching fullness of her body as they come together again and again. An ever building pleasure passing through them on loop, blending and circling and never ending. It feels heavy, fixed. One perfect moment lasting forever because time is everywhere all at once, contracting and expanding.

Time is endless. And so are they.

All around them is quiet, only soft labored breathing and the crinkle of sheets as she rises and falls and rises and falls. But oh, in their minds they are screaming. They pour passion and pleasure into each other in the form of violets and ambers and bright, blinding whites. Warmth bleeding through like light between cracks in a fence, splitting and engulfing. Pleasure slowly surrounding them, streaking behind their eyes until all they see are exploding stars.

Her breath on his throat stokes his passion like embers, flashing bright with each caress, building brighter and brighter as she moves above him. The weight of her is his anchor. Without her hands on his chest he'd simply drift away. Her hot breath on his neck, nails kneading at his flesh, knees pressed tight to his hips, he's lost himself in her, no longer aware of where he ends and she begins. They are one, in being as they always have been in soul. It's easy to imagine they don't exist at all, that they are pure light, weaved together, stretching out into eternity, careening through the universe, shaping everything they touch with the raw power of their presence. Their love seeping into every corner, spiraling across galaxies, painting their story among the stars and filling all the vast blackness between with their vibrant colors. 

She’s shaking now. Or is that him? Ragged breaths and pupils blown and nails digging into skin and they’re building, building, _building_. Shades of red bleed into their technicolor memories. Lipstick and shoes and Gallifrey. Passion. Kisses. Adventure. Home. When she comes apart, she doesn't scream, she whispers. His _name_ a barely audible breath against the shell of his ear and he's gone. It's been centuries since he's heard it spoken aloud. It feels right that's it's only come from her lips. Like a circle is complete. He hears it from her now, while she is overcome with joy and pleasure, while she knows he trusts her more than anything and loves her more than anyone. She is his world. All the family he has left and all he'll ever need. And in a matter of hours and all those years ago, she'll say it again, caring the weight of everything she feels now with it. She'll pour the words over him like hot wax, coating and scalding his bones with the promise of a future, of love and friendship and _someone you trust completely._

He thinks he needs to hear it now as much as he needed it then. That he is loved, will be loved, has been loved. His cheeks are wet and oh- He's crying, silent tears tracking down his face just like she said they would; and just like that the future is set in stone. Tomorrow he's going to watch her die. Tomorrow the circle completes. Tomorrow they are ending and beginning and it's beautiful and it's tragic and, "River. I..." _love you, need you, please don't go_. A thousand ways to end that sentence die on his tongue because words aren't enough, could never be enough. 

"Shh," she soothes him, thumbs stroking over his cheeks and drying his tears. She doesn't ask why he's crying. Somehow she knows he wouldn't be able to answer anyway. She just holds him as they both come back down. And he holds her, too, grip like a vice as he rests his head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat as she strokes her fingers through his hair. _Thump thump, thump thump_. The pause between each beat sounds like a funeral march, like beautiful, precious life counting down to zero. _Thump thump, thump thump._ But the beats themselves sound like hallelujah. Its rhythmic pumping is evidence of life and here and now. It’s his favorite sound in all the universe and it reminds him not to mourn what’s still right in front of him.  
  
He flips her, using his weight to pin her to the bed, peppering frantic, playful kisses on her jaw, cheeks, eyes, nose, everywhere. She squeaks at the assault, making half hearted escape attempts until he stills, pressing his forehead to hers. She hums happily and he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“My new screwdriver.” She answers easily and he lifts up, faux offense on his face.

“There’s a handsome man in your bed and you’re thinking about screwdrivers?”

“Is there?” She makes a show of looking over his shoulder. “Is he hiding behind your chin?”

“You’re not funny, River Song.”

“I am, a bit.”

He pouts and she rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetie, it’s a very pretty chin. Are you happy, now?” He shows her how happy he is by dropping kisses down her neck and behind her ear, nipping at her sensitive flesh in a way he knows makes her shiver. "Again?” She delights. “You're a frisky boy tonight. How much champagne did you have?" 

It’s not the champagne, it’s her he’s drunk on. He's always left wanting more. "Not up to the challenge, Professor?" His lips curl around the title like it’s something naughty, and she grins because she loves it when he calls her that.

"Oh, I'm not complaining."

“Good.” He smacks a kiss to her forehead. “Because I do believe I promised you these.” He reaches into the bedside table, pulling out handcuffs and dangling them in front of her. He can’t think of a better way to ensure she’ll still be here in the morning. He’ll tie her up and tease her all night if that’s what it takes to keep her here. Not that _he’s_ complaining.

“What a lucky girl I am.” She hums. “We should get married more often.”

His hearts crack at her words, so easily tossed about and unaware of the pendulum swinging silently between them. He buries the pain deep, hiding the damage with a cheeky smile and saying, “Must be the honeymoon. How long do those usually last? Two- Three hundred years?”

“More like seven, I think.”

“Can we try for eight instead?”

“Anything for you, honey.” She purrs. “Besides, you have the handcuffs.” She smirks deviously up at him. “You can keep me here as long as you like.”

It’s only banter, but he can’t help the way his hearts soar at the thought. “I may hold you to that, Professor.” And then he’s kissing her again, not even attempting to suppress thoughts of keeping her here, of bringing her breakfast and peppering her with soft kisses until her eyes flutter open. Just him and her and handcuffs for centuries.

If only it could always end this way.

\---

Morning finds him like a thief, stealing from him something so _so_ precious.

River is gone, out the door before he could even give her a proper goodbye, taking both his hearts and the last of his hope with her. He clutches to his chest the only piece of her he has left, a delicately written note that reads, “Had to leave early to prepare for an expedition. Maybe I'll see you there?   
Ps, Took the handcuffs, hope you don't mind. X"

By now she’ll be on her way. Soon they will run through a forest full leather bound shadows and nightmares. They will bicker and he will bargain and she will burn. In a matter of hours she will die, but in a way she’s been dead for hundreds of years. They are ending and beginning because time is like a circle and circles are infinite.

And so are they.


End file.
